


love, or the lack thereof

by bokuqka



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angry Pining, Angst, Assassin Merlin (Merlin), Assassination Attempt(s), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Prince Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Slow Burn, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28988889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokuqka/pseuds/bokuqka
Summary: "The guards will hang you for your crimes. One plea from me and they will drag you away, bind your hands and slaughter you like an animal." The prince stepped closer, suffocating Merlin with his wrath. "So, stoppissingme off.""Oh, but it is such fun to see you so angry, sire."In which Merlin is paid to kill the prince. And so, he tries.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin meets the prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A SHORT FIRST CHAPTER / PROLOGUE KINDA  
> 

The prince, golden and ethereal in all his royal magnificence, unbuttoned his white shirt - that was probably crafted by delicate hands of servants underneath the castle - oblivious to the man sat on his windowsill. Merlin waited, silent and perched upon the stone that trapped two tall, expensive panes of glass between its fingertips. Staring at the blissfully unaware man, who smiled softly at his busy hands as he dressed himself - not a guard in sight within the painfully spacious chambers. 

It was a shame - that Merlin had to kill such a pretty man - but a job was a job, and Merlin wasn't going to turn down that kind of money.

So Merlin waited - as he had for the last two hours - for an opportunity to get the dagger weighing down his boot anywhere near His Highness. He waited, cold and really wishing he’d worn his gloves today, keeping an eye on the brilliantly blonde one through every window he could manage. He waited, as he had all throughout that awfully long dinner celebration - that apparently the royals held for themselves every evening - for the perfect chance to end the life of (supposedly) the most obnoxious member of the royal family. The customer who ordered a hit on a royal had some nerve, but had more money than sense, so who was Merlin to ask questions. 

Merlin kind of hated this fucking job.

Merlin had followed - through the thousands of windows on the castle walls - the young prince to his chambers, where he'd spend the rest of his evening. Hours away from his family, potentially his guards - it was the perfect time slot for someone to sneak in and assassinate him. Someone like Merlin; he was expertly crafted into one of the best in business, killing a silly little prince wouldn't be a problem.

The prince in question continued to fumble with his clothes - as if he were too tipsy off the very little wine he had consumed to see the buttons of his shirt. Merlin felt like laughing at him - of course the  _ prince  _ would have terribly low alcohol tolerance - but insisted that he must keep his cover if he were to be successful. 

Merlin couldn’t help but stare at his hands, draped angrily and frustratingly, but looked kind of gorgeous. His hands were pretty - elegant, perfectly sculptured - lacking the scars that tattered Merlin's. They were probably warm, smooth and everything an emotionally drained Merlin could wish for; warm hands running through his hair, threading tiny strands through warm fingers.

The prince’s hands were probably wonderfully magical things. Merlin sighs, and that is his first mistake.

The prince had dropped his unbuttoned shirt and had turned toward the window. Maybe to close it - he hadn't remembered opening it (since Merlin had opened it) and it was getting rather cold (because he was shirtless). But now lay the problem of an assassin's target  _ noticing the fucking assassin sat on their windowsill  _ . The prince had seen Merlin and he was bewildered - eyes wide and eyebrows raised - almost as if he’d seen a ghost. Merlin looked into his eyes, tense, as the prince did his. A moment passed of unbearable silence, perhaps two, and the prince shifted his gaze to the large, exceptionally valuable doors; the dim light of the central chandelier causing his eyes to sparkle. 

_ Please don’t do it _ , Merlin begged in his mind. Drawing attention to an intruder complicated things, but drawing attention to an intruder with the intent to kill? Merlin would be dead - hunted, captured and tortured by the guards - in minutes.

A pause.

The prince inhaled and let out a hesitant, questioning - "Guards?"

And Merlin was jolted to reality; jumping from his place in the window, he sprinted to the prince's side to tug and twist his arms behind his back - pressing them there brutally - and pulled the dagger from his right boot. He held the knife to the silently bewildered prince’s throat, Merlin’s chest against his back, and waited. He could feel his heart, so close, beating; its pattern erratic and confused.

He was kind of warm.

The kind of warm that was too warm and too comforting and too  _ nice  _ for Merlin’s own good.

_ Slit his throat,  _ had been his instruction.  _ Slit his throat, and leave no trace you were there,  _ Gaius had told him. It would be so incredibly easy to follow instruction, to cut his skin so quickly he wouldn’t have enough time to see himself bleed; how easy it would be to taint his perfectly clean dagger with the blood of such a man. But something about the perfect, pretty prince’s widened eyes made Merlin want to mess with him.

To play a game, if you will.

Merlin  _ could  _ slit his throat and kill him almost instantly, but the lack of resistance from the royal made ending his life all the more boring. Perhaps it was the wine - making him so reluctant to fight for his life. So instead, Merlin stood with the prince in his hold, vulnerable to the dagger kept firmly at his pale neck.

Merlin can predict exactly what Gaius is going to scold him with later. Really, he ought to stop disobeying him like this - doing things that, unmistakably, piss him off. For example, ignoring his occupation completely and diverting into chaos.

"My guards - they're on their way. They will kill you for this, you fool." The prince huffed, falling slack against the harsh grip of Merlin's trained, callous hands. Merlin only laughed in response, taunting the prince's unguarded state.

"I wouldn't insult the man with a knife to your throat - best not to seek the consequences."

"Oh, please. If you wanted me dead," The prince threw his gaze behind him, as far as he could manage in the position, to glare at Merlin angrily - "you would've slit my throat the second you broke into my chambers."

"Yet, I haven't. So, let's play nice, yes?" 

“Play? Are you quite mad?” The prince snapped.

“Perhaps. Only a mad man would attempt to kill you, Your Highness.” The mockery of adoration in Merlin’s tone, he could see, was positively driving the prince mad.

“..So you  _ will  _ kill me after all?” Visibly confused, the prince seeked clarification. Although, he didn’t seem all that afraid of the imminent threat to his life. “What’s all this fuss for, then? A game?”

“Precisely.”

The prince mouthed the response back to himself and furrowed his brows, but still couldn’t make sense of it. 

“I intend to play a game with you, sire.” Merlin smirked as the prince stiffened in his harsh hold, nails clawing at the delicate skin. “If you win, I’ll let you live another day.”

A pause. Possibly to emphasise the prince’s disbelief.

“You bastard.” The prince swore, muttering curses under his breath. Mumbling and dissatisfied, positively furious, he couldn’t believe that this  _ bastard  _ had so much nerve.

“You mean, you’d rather me kill you now?” The prince didn’t dignify nor honour him with a response. Instead, he huffed and slumped in his captivity (partially using Merlin’s chest as support). He looked like he was accepting his fate.

“I will not let you string me up as your puppet.” And oh, Merlin couldn’t be more unimpressed. Not only was the prince uncooperative, but also dull.

“Fine. You’re no fun.” 

Silence followed for a few minutes, trailing sadly between Merlin’s broken promise to slit his throat and the prince’s resignation to perseverance. Merlin should’ve killed him as soon as he had the chance. He could still kill him now - but now just didn’t seem  _ right  _ .

“Lord, this is proving to be quite boring.” Merlin yawned for the effect, and you could practically see the steam bursting from the prince’s ears. The condescending tone - and ridiculous statement - wound the prince (slowly) into a feverish rage; he tugged at Merlin's grip on his wrists, a sudden urge to get free of him. The weak, hesitant tugging soon turned into aggressive attempts to escape.

"Hey now, princess. I wouldn't struggle  _ too  _ much, you're knocking my hand here - don't want to accidentally slit your throat or anything." Merlin chuckled - heartily, loudly, mockingly - enjoying the fierce scowl on the prince's sour, pouting lips all too well.

The prince growled at him, and Merlin laughed. He continued to thrash in his hold, despite the threat, and was surprisingly close to wringing himself free. Merlin thought about it - letting him go. This was kinda starting to hurt - the prince was stronger than Merlin would’ve imagined. But, it seemed better to prove himself stronger just to spite the prince.

Though perhaps, it was better to let him go. It was true the royal guards would respond to their master's call immediately - placing them a minute, maybe, from his beloved chambers. Merlin couldn't get caught today, not on a pesky assassination like this one. Besides, there was always tomorrow; he could kill the prince tomorrow.

Merlin laughed at his attempts, removing the dagger from his throat and shoving him across the room. 

"Had your fun, eh?" The prince coughed, a desperate hand gripping his neck where the blade once was - as if to check if him getting away unharmed was real. The faint, pattering footsteps of guards were now audible - they were undoubtedly close. He was going to get caught.

Gaius was going to kill him.

"Plenty. Same time tomorrow?" Merlin joked, in hopes to hide the nervous tickle in his stomach, and planned his escape. He couldn't stay here much longer.

The window; it was the obvious choice and he knew his way around the castle from there. Getting down would be a problem under limited time - with those guards and their arrows, he'd be wounded (or possibly dead) in minutes. If he wanted to use the window, he'd have to jump. Or perhaps, he could risk running through the whole castle after escaping the prince's chambers - only, of course, if he wanted to be dead within seconds.

Merlin cursed himself for not thinking of a better escape plan beforehand.

The window was still wide and accepting Merlin with open arms, and he considered it as he stared longingly. But the prince seemed to gather the few glances he spared the window and put it together quite quickly. He seemed furious.

"Oh, not a chance in hell." He muttered, running towards Merlin. A snarl, and the prince tackled him to the ground - arms pinned above Merlin's head (with one hand, impressively), he sat on his chest which secured him to the floor. Of course, he had to grab Merlin's dagger from his hand and throw it towards the window. Clearly, he had sobered up - the prince twenty minutes ago couldn't even put up a fight against considerably skinner, smaller Merlin. It was the prince's turn to laugh.

Merlin gulped. Gaius really was going to kill him. The footsteps were louder; closer.

"Let me get a good look at your face,  _ princess  _ . It's going to be put on 'wanted criminal' posters all over Camelot." He grinned, positively menacingly, and grabbed Merlin by his jaw harshly. Merlin kind of regrets saying he wanted the prince's hands on him. This is not what he wanted.

Merlin winced, it kind of hurt, and attempted to kick the prince's lower back where he'd left his legs free. It didn't really work, his knees kept getting in the way, so he settled for snide remarks in hope the prince would get off him and let him escape in frustration.

"Threats like that don't work on me, sire. You think I don't already have a few useless posters and bounties to my name?" Merlin grinned and the prince scowled. He didn't seem to like being mocked, or insulted, or teased in any way. Merlin decided he liked to see him scowl. It meant he was winning.

The prince loosened his grip on Merlin's arms, putting more energy into being frustrated than he should've, and Merlin took his chance. He wrenched his hands free, grabbing the prince's shoulders and shoving him to the floor to flip them over. Merlin straddled the prince's waist as he stared up at him in shock and quiet resentment. Merlin smirked.

"Thank you for this lovely evening, sire - but I must be on my way." His voice dripping with sarcasm and oozing with the repressed desire to punch the gorgeous prince in the face, Merlin spoke with a wide smirk. “Please, consider this a complimentary ‘free pass’ on our little game!”

“There is- no game!” The prince made a strangled noise, irritated, and thrashed to get out from under Merlin. He, being on the lighter side, wasn't much of a challenge and the prince could very easily escape this position - but Merlin couldn't afford to get captured again.

At that thought, Merlin remembers the guards and their menacing footsteps. They were much louder now.

"You prick," The prince huffed, looking up at Merlin with eyes doused in pure rage, "don't think you can get away with this."

"Forgive me, sire," Merlin smiled, fluttering his eyelashes teasingly whilst stifling his laughter, "But I already have."

The guards burst through the door, spotting the intruder instantly and began charging toward him aggressively.

The window it is.

Merlin crawled off of the prince and sprinted to the window, reaching down and grabbing his discarded dagger from the floor. He pocketed his dagger and arrived at the window, throwing himself over the stone wall so he was sat, once again, on the windowsill. Taking one last look at the prince's eyes, Merlin winked and then threw himself from the window.

Instantly, as soon as the wind hit his face and his body hit the cobbled stone ground, Merlin felt cold again.

"Bastard!" The prince shouted as Merlin fell, serenading to the undeniable pain that awaited him in the next few seconds. Merlin saw the brief image of guards piling to the window, leaning over the stone wall where Merlin sat mere seconds ago. They were determined to chase him; they were determined to break a few bones in order to catch this mad man who had made an attempt on their prince's life. He heard the prince call them off, telling them to "save energy for when he turns up again" and that, for some bizarre reason, made Merlin smirk.

Merlin continued to lay where he'd fallen and thought ahead to tomorrow, where he would meet the prince again and be able to kill him this time. He felt his bones break and blood vessels burst to blossom into a bruise, but the pain was bearable. The pain would subside, the excitement of what would happen tomorrow would not.

Merlin couldn't wait to kill the prince, and get it right this time.

Pretty hands be damned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin returns with bad news. Arthur speaks with his father.

Merlin returned to the tavern with a limp, a few broken ribs and very bad news. Gaius, to say the least, was not impressed.

Not only had Merlin been later getting back to base then he’d mentioned, he was also bearing the bad news of the prince’s survival and - ultimately, Merlin’s failure.

This specific job - a hit ordered by, evident from his money, a very powerful figure - was important and top priority. Merlin, being one of the company’s best, was assigned and trusted.

Merlin had lost that trust the second he let the prince live. 

“Do you understand how much you’ve lost us?” Gaius was furious - not so much concerning the injuries (he barely glanced at Merlin’s throbbing face), but rather the money he’d cost them. They could lose this customer to a rivalling company, all because Merlin wanted to avoid doing his job and have a little fun.

“I can always just kill him tomorrow.” Merlin shrugged, like it was no big deal. It was, in fact, a very big deal. “I’ll get us the money.”

“This was not another one of your games, Merlin!” Gaius berated him and Merlin just sat there, accepting the abuse. He should’ve just killed the prince, really. If he were really careful, he could’ve killed him within ten minutes of him returning to his room. Instead, Merlin got distracted, and Merlin played and now he’d failed.

The whole room erupted into chaos, insults such as “useless bastard” being thrown around, angry grunts of “they should’ve sent me instead” rumbling through the cracks in the floorboards and unimpressed glares being hacked at his back. Merlin despised the lot of them; the half of them didn’t do their jobs anyway.

Merlin sighed. He really should’ve killed the prick.

Gaius threw his hands up, disbelieving Merlin’s lack of cooperation and left to go find himself another drink.

“His security is going to be doubled from now on, perhaps even tripled if they’re being extra careful. You’ve only made this harder for yourself.” Gwen muttered, leaning in closer to Merlin to try and avoiding fuelling the damage already done. 

“Security has never been a problem for me, Gwen. We both know this.” Merlin swirled the very little whiskey left in his glass around, tipping his head back and letting it fall down his throat. He slammed the glass on the counter.

“Arrogance should not be your current approach, Merlin.” Gwen tilted her head disappointedly, giving him a pointed stare. “You have pissed off everyone in this room tonight, because  _ you _ failed your mission. If it weren’t a problem, if this job were so easy for you, you would’ve come back with millions to share.”

Gwen sat next to him, looking around the tavern plainly as she spoke. Merlin knew she was right, Gwen often was, but being treated like this mission was his first and final and he’d failed was humiliating. Hundreds of successes to his name, but dozens of eyes within the tavern were painting him useless.

“Sorry. Rough night.”

Gwen huffed a laugh, scanning Merlin’s bruised and battered body with doubtful eyes. “Yeah, I bet.”

The two laughed gently, quietly and Merlin believed he could get through the grand disappointment of his peers if Gwen kept him distracted.

“Just, be careful? The royal guards must be rough.” Merlin nodded, promising.

Something in the far corner of the tavern caught Gwen’s eye, and her smile immediately turned sour and apologetic.

Gwaine approaches, grinning widely, with a look on his face that makes Merlin think he really wants to punch him for messing this up.

“Well, we all know Merlin loves a good challenge!” Gwaine shouts, throwing his arm around Merlin’s shoulder and shaking him harder than he needed to. Gwaine was smiling, drinking and laughing with half the tavern; Merlin knew he was pissed - he always was when Merlin pulled a stunt like this.

_ The stunt _ being ‘presented as the company’s finest, and yet still managing to let everyone down’.

They were good friends - of course they were. But Gwaine was excited for this one; a dead prince and millions of cash for the company. Merlin failing the mission was undesirable. He has a right to be upset, Merlin supposed. 

The commotion of Gwaine approaching the pair pulled Gaius back into the conversation and Merlin internally groaned.

“What are we meant to say to the client?” Gaius looked at him for an answer, his eyes wide with incredulity. He had berated, reprimanded and scolded Merlin the second he walked through the door; limping, bruised Merlin who couldn’t think of a better excuse other than  _ he was stronger than I thought _ .

“I apologise, but we were unable to complete your request because my employee was so reckless in doing his job that he refused backup and got pushed out of a window.” 

Gwaine laughed, throwing his head back and finished the rest of the beer in his glass. Merlin sighed, rolling his eyes. Gwen shifted uncomfortably in her seat next to Merlin; she didn’t like the tension between the man sat next to her and Gaius’ displeased glare.

Merlin wasn’t actually pushed - but he felt like mentioning he’d thrown himself out of the window because he’d been spotted, cornered and trapped by the prince’s knights might’ve tipped Gaius over the edge. Telling Gaius he hadn’t really thought out his escape might just get him fired once and for all. 

“Yeah. We’d be the laughing stock of the industry.” Gwaine noted (like he needed to), and looked at Merlin with a hysterical look in his eye. “I say we fire Merlin before the word gets out that he was even associated with us in the first place.”

Gwaine had never been the funniest guy at parties and he definitely wasn’t going to start now.

“Ha ha. Very funny, Gwaine.” Merlin shook his head and waited the bartender for another drink. Gwaine shoved him, teasingly, in return and Gaius only looked toward them in disbelief.

“Might I fire you both if you don’t start taking your jobs seriously.” Gaius muttered, pointing at the two with wide eyes. Gwaine choked a laugh.

“Me? I take my job very seriously!” He exclaimed, holding a hand over his chest to express his perplexity at the accusation. “At least I don’t refuse backup because I think I’m better than everyone else at this job.” 

“I didn’t  _ refuse _ backup - I didn’t need it.” It was Merlin’s turn to argue against the claims, though he was less passionate and bothered than Gwaine.

“Because you think you’re better than everyone else?”

Merlin huffed. “No.”

“Well, Merlin. Something about your bruised cheek and the odd pain in your chest tells me that you did, in fact, need the fucking backup.” Gwaine grinned, teasingly as usual but a bit more maliciously than before.

“Gwaine, with all due respect,  _ you _ .. are not backup.” Scoffing, Merlin looked at the tall man with slightly raised eyebrows.

“You failed the mission, not me. If we’re questioning anyone’s abilities, it’s yours.” The fight was so childish they were practically poking their tongues out at each other. 

“Focus, please.” Gaius, face in hands, sighed and took a swig from his fourth pint. He rubbed his hand over his face, stressed and tired and  _ really fucking wishing Merlin had done his job. _

“Look, Gaius. Send me to kill him. He’ll be dead by ten tomorrow’s morning.” Gwaine insisted, stood closer to Gaius and sent mean glares in Merlin’s direction to let him know just how much he despised his previous comments and how much better than him he was going to prove he was. Merlin didn’t think that was very fair; as far as everyone is concerned, he was the one who ‘got pushed out of a window’. That’s, technically, why he failed. Someone is yet to care, or say he is not to blame.

“No. I need Merlin to kill him.”

“What?”

“I trust your opinion, Gaius - but, is he really in any condition to work?” Gwen chirped in, rising from her seat and taking a step toward Gaius as she gestured behind her at Merlin.

“He will do it. Unless he wants to be fired.” Assertive, Gaius had made his decision. There was no changing it or defying it; his word was law.

“Fair enough. Merlin will kill him.” Gwaine spoke nonchalantly and stepped back, grabbing his neglected drink from the nearby table and turned to walk away. “Don’t embarrass us again, Merlin!” Gwaine waved mockingly and laughed, pushing past Merlin with playful intent as he moved to the back of the tavern.

All three of them watched him go until Gaius approached Merlin closely.

“Dead. You hear me?” A finger pressed harshly into his chest, Merlin nodded as Gaius mildly threatened him. “I need him dead by the end of next week. Can't do that? Forget you have a job here.”

Now, Gaius wasn’t exactly being harsh. Merlin had failed big missions like this one too many times (in favour of his games, of course) - but he was still one of the company’s best.

Gaius never threatened with empty words.

“Of course.” Merlin gave him a polite nod and Gaius deemed it sufficient, grabbing his drink and walking away - just as Gwaine did.

Merlin sighed a breath of relief. That could’ve gone a whole lot worse.

But now, he supposes, he needs a plan. A week was long - but sometimes never long enough. He could bring backup this time, make his job a whole lot easier, but he wasn’t ever one for teamwork.

Merlin turns to talk to Gwen, who is nervously biting her nails. He had an idea.

“Gwen, will you be my backup?” He flashed her with pretty, begging eyes and pouted his lips jokingly, but Gwen still looked at him unimpressed.

“Are you serious? You’re seriously not going to ask Gwaine?” Her eyebrows were raised, questioning if Merlin even heard the whole past ten minutes of their conversation. Gwaine would pay money to join this case.

“He’s being a dick.” Merlin stated, in a heartbeat. 

“Merlin - he has been begging for this case since we got it. Let him in on it after you failed - it’s the least you can do.”

“He said we should question my abilities.”

A pause. Gwen laughed.

She continued to laugh, and tap Merlin on the shoulder like he had just told the funniest joke she’d ever heard. He knew she was mocking him; he didn’t need to be so upset over something so stupid.

“Fine, I’ll ask Gwaine. But - I’m only asking if you agree to be a backup too.” Gwen had stopped laughing, but she pretended to wipe remnants of tears (that were never really there) from her cheeks. She nodded along to what Merlin was suggesting, agreeing, but she wasn’t really listening. 

“Okay. Yeah, whatever.”

For two or more hours longer, Merlin drank and gossiped and laughed until he no longer noticed that his ribs were hurting. He should probably get them checked out; he should’ve asked Gaius the moment he walked in the door, but he knew it wouldn’t have gone well.

Merlin was getting tired, and he still needed to get home and plan for the next week of his life; planning, plotting and debating the murder of the prince of Camelot. He supposes he should get back, so he kissed Gwen’s cheek and grabbed his torn up coat (ripped to shreds from his fall, of course).

Walking toward the exit to the tavern, Merlin spotted Gwaine slouched up against the doorframe with (what must’ve been) his tenth drink in hand and still managing to look flawlessly sober.

Gwaine met his eyes and scowled, but his smile broke through and ruined his awful facade. 

As he got closer, Merlin opened his mouth to immediately regret what he was about to ask. Gwaine would never let him live this down; asking a man like him, who he’d told would never be chosen as someone’s backup, to be his backup.

“Gwaine. Swing by mine around ten tomorrow, okay?”

“Woah, Merlin!” Gwaine threw his hands up like he'd surrendered, chuckling but looking around at his other friends with wide eyes. “You finally taking me up on that offer?”

And seriously, Merlin thought he’d dropped that whole  _ I asked him if he wanted to make out sometime and he said no _ thing years ago. You know, when Merlin had turned him down.

Merlin glared, unimpressed, to which Gwaine only beamed, waving a dismissing hand to  _ forget what I said, I'm drunk _ .

“You want in on the hit? Be there no later than ten.”

Gwaine’s eyes widened, and Merlin knew what he was going to say even before he took his breath. With a wide, blinding, shit-eating grin - Gwaine shouted: “I thought I wasn’t backup!”

Gwaine barked a laugh and Merlin fled through the heavy tavern door. They could laugh and mock and argue about it tomorrow. For now, Merlin needed to get home and plan his escape route.

_ Preferably one that avoided jumping out of windows _ , Merlin thought as he began to limp back to his house, clutching the right side of his body where he could begin to feel the sharp, stabbing pain in his rib again.

Merlin regrets not killing the prince the second he laid eyes on him, but now (he promised) he would make it up to Gaius, to Gwaine, to himself. Within the next seven days, he was going to kill the prince.

He wasn’t going to fail.

* * *

The castle was unusually quiet for this time of day. The guards had been rushed to additional security checks around the castle, but more specifically, Arthur’s chambers. Royal carpenters and builders filing in to board up the windows, his guards asking him for descriptions of the event and anything important he remembers, his sister running in with pleading concern and slight panic.

“Arthur?” Morgana called his name, reached out to him, held his hand; she tried to comfort him. All Arthur could do was stare at the, now boarded-up, window where the strange man had fled.

Well, maybe strange wasn’t quite the best way to describe him. 

The man; he was unpleasant, arrogant and he was terribly discourteous. He tried to kill Arthur; broke into his home, snuck into his chambers and held a knife to his throat. He had every intention, every instruction, every plan to kill Arthur - but he didn’t.

And that is what is keeping the prince so awfully baffled.

Arthur ignored his sister’s call - or rather, couldn’t hear it - and continued to stare into the dreadful space where he remembered climbing atop the man and threatening his life too. Arthur too had stripped him vulnerable, captured him and held him just where he wanted him - all whilst he promised and swore upon himself to kill that man.

Arthur remembered himself finding it all quite..  _ Thrilling _ .

It was like a twisted cat and mouse chase; they were chasing each other like some sort of game, the survivor would reign victorious.

Why was it that Arthur enjoyed fighting against him? In such a way that, perhaps, came off a bit strangely. A man - a probable contract killer - attempted to slit his throat, but Arthur was intrigued. Exhilarated.

Strange. Perhaps it was the right word to use.

“You ought to be more careful, Arthur.” Morgana spoke gently, but (by the slight waver in her tone) he could tell she wished to lash out. To berate him, call him ‘stupid’, insult him to make her feel less frightened about the whole thing. Arthur could’ve been dead if it weren’t for that strange man’s sudden indecisiveness.

Perhaps he should be a little upset; petrified, mortified, frightened. He was almost killed, yet he isn’t quite scared. He isn’t even thinking negatively about it, evidently. No one had tried to kill him before; it was almost always his father, occasionally his sister, but never Arthur. He didn’t quite know how to react.

Call it shock, Arthur supposes.

“I am perfectly careful.” Arthur smiled a small, reassuring smile towards Morgana. She nodded hesitantly, but continued biting her lip anxiously.

A few moments of silence passed, where neither of them said anything.

He could feel her impatience; she wanted to answer questions, she wanted to get explanations, she wanted reassurance that Arthur was truly safe. Arthur could only give her so much, so he held her hand and squeezed it tight.

Morgana was anxious, concerned, frightened for her brother, but she was also furious and vengeful; protective. She wanted to find, capture and kill the bastard who had even the slightest nerve to attempt to kill her brother. She would have her guards slaughter him like an animal.

“He would’ve killed you, you know.” Softly, almost a whisper - like she didn’t want to admit it. Arthur gulped, but said nothing.

“ _ Arthur _ , you could be dead.” Still nothing above a hush of breath, but said man could feel his sister’s unease from her shaking hands.

“I know. He  _ did _ pull a dagger from his boot and hold it to my neck.” He chuckled and flashed a smile - in hopes to clear the air. Morgana smiled sadly, but was unable to force her panic to rest to let herself smile.

“You know what I mean,” Morgana laughs forcefully, attempting to lighten her own mood in hopes of reassuring Arthur, shoving Arthur’s shoulder playfully but letting her hand rest there a while. “I’m just, glad he didn’t.”

“Glad?” Arthur huffed a laugh in mocking disbelief, and Morgana let herself laugh with him.

“Funny. You would think your family doesn’t care for you at all, but look at that.”

Arthur paused, and let his smile fall a bit.

“He doesn’t.” Morgana’s smile faltered and she cleared her throat awkwardly.

“He wouldn’t listen to our concerns even if we tried.”

“I suppose. How angry he will be when he hears of this?” And at that, they both let themselves laugh obnoxiously loudly, earning looks from the bustling workers of the castle. They both know the answer to that question is  _ very. _

“I hope you’re comfortable sleeping under the same covers as Sir Leon. He will never let you out of sight from a guard ever again.” The two giggled relentlessly again, to which Sir Leon sent a mockingly disapproving glance their way.

As their laughter died down, Arthur sighed heavily.

“Must he find out?” Practically pouting, Arthur looked at his sister and begged with her with his eyes to prevent his impending punishment. Both of them knew neither of them had any power when it came to the king.

“That you were almost killed? Certainly.” Morgana suppressed a laugh, but her eyes were widened with joy and tears gathered at her internal laughter. Arthur knew it was obvious; he was trying to avoid the unavoidable death glares of his father.

Arthur sighed, defeated, dropping his head to his hands and wished the whole encounter never happened. This was going to make such a mess with his father - how he was ‘irresponsible’, ‘good-for-nothing’, ‘hardly prince material’.

What a scandal.

Morgana sensed his distress and pulled him up to his feet from where he was sat. “Come on. We’ll take a stroll.”

Arthur laughed, raising an eyebrow. “A stroll?”

“Yes, now quickly! It will ease your mind.” Morgana smiled, patting his arm and they interlocked, pulling him from his chambers and through the long halls of their home.

Arthur allowed himself to be pulled along, listening to her sister’s soft hums as they  _ strolled _ around the castle. It was peaceful and calming, but every window they passed reminded him of pushing that man to the ground and sent a jolt of anxiety through Arthur’s chest.

In anticipation, in fear, in excitement, in dread; Arthur couldn’t tell. He didn’t really want to know.

“Ah, you two.” Sir Elyan stood in the doorframe to the kitchen, pointing at them with a smile. They both waved, and smiled back.

“Your father wants to see you. Both.” Sir Elyan sounds apologetic as he speaks, and Arthur can only guess what it could entail.

“Thank you, Elyan. We’ll be on our way.” Morgana pulls Arthur away, holding onto his arm tighter than before.

Arthur sighed heavily. He wasn’t supposed to know yet (he should still be sleeping), but Arthur guesses someone deemed it important enough to wake him anyway. He didn’t see why; the family within these castle walls were almost always being targeted by people wanting to destroy them, everyone walked with a red target on their backs. He didn’t see why someone trying to kill Arthur for the first time was such a big commotion.

Arthur wasn’t looking forward to the conversation with his very blunt, emotionally void, angry father. He was frightening and degrading and not at all loving.

“It’ll be alright, just ignore everything he says.” Morgana smiled encouragingly, but Arthur couldn’t muster enough energy to smile back. He was focusing it all on trying not to run desperately in the opposite direction. His father always managed to find new words to hurt him. 

As they approached the two, tall red doors that led to his father’s chambers, a female servant girl interrupted their mental silence.

“Excuse me, Morgana? You’re needed in the dining hall.” She spoke softly, and Arthur could curse at her. Pulling Morgana, his safety net, away from him in an absolutely vital moment of need was cruel. Morgana could always prevent their father from going too far with words, or stopping him from saying anything hurtful all together. Arthur didn’t have that power on his own.

Morgana felt his unease as he tensed at her side. She looked apologetic as she turned to look at him.

“I’m sorry, but it’s urgent.” She smiled sadly, unlinking their arms. She patted his shoulder and gave him a brief glance of encouragement before following the servant girl down the hall.

“Remember: don’t let him get to you.” She mumbled quickly before she walked too far out of ear-shot. Arthur only grumbled, annoyed, in response.

Facing his father alone was worse than anything he could think of. His habit of berating the slightest things always put Arthur in a foul mood, and they hadn’t really got along since his mother’s passing anyway. He was never really one to care about his children, only what they brought to the family - and to King Uther, that was power.

Considering the current predicament, Arthur can believe his father is going to be disappointed in his lack of power in preventing this attack from taking place. If Arthur had stopped this all from happening, King Uther wouldn’t be so  _ humiliated _ right now.

Arthur groaned, swiping his sweating hands over his face, shaking his head to try and rid himself of excess nerves. He never knew what to say to his scarily powerful father, but he almost always feared he would say the wrong thing. 

Arthur prepared himself; standing straight, ruffling his hair into a smarter position, smoothening his clothes so they weren't so crumpled with his nerves. He huffed a sigh, put on a polite smile and pushed open the heavy, red doors.

And before Arthur could even begin to greet his father, King Uther bellowed with a look of boredom painted on his face, disinterest sewn into his lips.

“You disappoint me, Arthur,” King Uther sighed, frustrated and struggling to reign in his anger. He sat slouched on his golden pedestal, the crown glinting upon his house. A shaky hand stretched over the harsh limits of age and stress that tarnished his face in deep frowns. 

Arthur’s smile disappeared; he replaced it with a confused, slightly sulking frown.

“I called the guards immediately. I did what was instructed in that sort of situation.”

“Couldn’t fend him off on your own?”

Arthur paused, stunned, before he answered.

“Excuse me?” Arthur huffed a laugh in disbelief.

The King paused, but never let his cold stare falter from piercing Arthur’s eyes.

“You let him put that dagger to your throat.” 

“It is not as if I did any such thing on purpose!” Arthur spluttered, baffled. How did being ambushed and attacked within the safe confines of his own home test his worth?

“A  _ king _ would not have let him even step foot in the room.”

And Arthur scoffed; to which Uther raised his eyebrows in mild shock. Arthur couldn’t begin to fathom how his father had managed to use this situation against; he wasn’t able to predict an intruder holding a knife to his throat, so he is not worthy of inheriting the throne.

It was preposterous, it was undeniably absurd, it was  _ unfair. _

“This is ludicrous! This ought to be a jest of some sort.” Arthur laughed, but not heartily. It was rasped with pain, disbelief and the sound drowned in Arthur’s own disappointment in his father. How could this be fair? Judged by the attempts against him?

If his father would apply this to himself, then he may be the most unworthy king of all; if calling one’s knights to protect him from all harm deems a man unworthy, his father would reign champion of  _ never doing things himself. _

“Not a jest, simply an observation.”

They were both silent for a moment - waiting. The King waited for Arthur to acknowledge that what he was saying was going to help him, guide him into becoming a better leader. Arthur waited - for an apology, perhaps. For making him feel so useless. So  _ worthless _ .

King Uther never graced him with one.

“No prince can be a king if he is not as strong as those who plan to take him down.” King Uther stated with a tone so monotone, so bored, that it made Arthur feel stupid for not knowing or realising such a thing. He knew it, of course, yet Uther made him feel like he didn’t. 

“Yeah, okay.” Arthur replied with a matching tone, bored.

Awkward patches of silence provoked them, attacking them both in waves and making the insisted eye contact uncomfortable. Arthur felt like he was drowning in the silence, and suffocating with Uther’s gaze - plastered over his face like a pillow preventing him from getting air.

“Become stronger, Arthur. You shall then prove your worth.”

Become stronger, like he wasn’t strong enough. Years,  _ decades _ , of knight training to become an expert in combat fighting - to protect himself. Years of priding himself on the skills he wielded with his sword. King Uther was saying he wasn’t good enough and that, just because of one night’s mistakes (that could easily be blamed on the wine), he needed to be better.

Arthur said nothing and left the room.

Outside the heavy doors, Arthur leaned against them and sighed; exhausted. He looked around and no one was there waiting for him. Morgana had yet to return from her errand, so Arthur stormed the halls himself; footsteps heavy, his spilling anger weighing him down. 

Conversations with his father always made things taste sour. Memories of his mother often turned dim with the insults and complaints his father applies to her character daily; any hobby Arthur picked up was often ‘useless’ and ‘unpleasant to the eye’ so he was never really interested again; the past few hours of his life.

The situation with that strange man; it was thrilling, exciting. It made Arthur feel powerful. But now, reminiscing on being intimidating only to intimidate back - it began to taste bitter.

Because now, Arthur knew that encounter had made him weak, or rather, had shone light on those weaknesses. It made him vulnerable, exposed - terrified. It diminished his worth, his value, his desirability of being a king.

What king couldn’t protect himself from those he wanted to tear him down?

Screw thrilling.

That encounter was not  _ thrilling _ ; it was not fun, it was not something to look back on and laugh, it was not a game. The more Arthur thinks about it, the more deluded he believes he is. How had he let himself be calm and reserved these past hours? Unalarmed, composed, unaffected? He should have lost his temper; the second the criminal took a step in Arthur’s direction, he should have pinned him down and captured him - made an example of him.

He had thought it was exciting, fighting so harshly yet so elegantly with someone so frustrating. But now, Arthur was enraged; the memory of the criminal’s face made his blood boil.

After the conversation with his father, Arthur was angry;  _ furious _ . Arthur was angry because he hadn’t defended himself, furious because he had let himself be played with and humiliated by the intruder, infuriated because he did not kill that bastard the second he laid his eyes on him.

Now, as a result, his father deemed him unworthy. He was weak, dishonourable to his family - his father believed he would make an undesirable king. The culprit should’ve killed him; being left alive to suffer through the mess he’d made is worse than death. A torturous hell.

Screw  _ him _ . That unpleasant, arrogant, terribly discourteous bastard. Trying to kill him, making a fool of him in front of his own damn guards, dancing and playing with him like he was some game.

It  _ infuriated _ Arthur; the memory of being pinned imobile and fooled plagued his mind, torturing him with his own weakness of being so easily vulnerable. The intruder threatened him so effortlessly, holding a knife to his throat and making Arthur weak without hesitation made the prince so, so angry.

He felt vengeful, vindictive, bitter. He wanted the intruder dead by his own hands - humiliated, threatened then killed with the very same knife he had the nerve to hold to Arthur’s throat.

Arthur promises that if the wanted criminal posters don’t help the townsfolk find him and if the memories of his face don’t help the royal guards find him; Arthur promises he’ll wander the streets of Camelot to hunt, capture and torture the mad man himself.

He would spit bitter words of malice in his smug face, pulling every ounce of arrogance he had within him from his chest and destroying it with his bare hands. He wanted to shatter, tear down and break the criminal until all he could do would be to cry out to be saved and to be forgiven. Arthur would be unforgiving; Arthur would torture him to his death.

Arthur is going to have that bastard put to death.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is kind of late (also i didn't proof read either :/)
> 
> hope you enjoyed!!!

**Author's Note:**

> this is the product of my love of merlin and enemies to lovers  
> 
> 
> the vibe kinda changes after this chapter sooo.. i promise their relationship dynamic isn't this boring!  
> also,,, when i say slow burn... i mean they're gonna commit to this whole "enemies to lovers" thing till the very end so - prepare for angst?? but not heavy angst ig
> 
> also sorry for switching between tenses all the time!! my brain gets confused
> 
> hope you liked!!!


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